Restaurant at the end of the Universe
by endsoftime
Summary: Sherlock and Irene reunite in the brief calm before the storm. /SPOILERS for Scandal in Belgravia


Mostly I just thought I'd try my hand at Irene, and her crazy-confusing not-love, not-romantic relationship with Sherlock. Meh. I got bored.

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><p>It's a chilly day in Krakow and almost a year since London and <em>I AM SHERLOCKED<em> when she gets a text from a number she hasn't used—but thought about from time to time—in months.

_Incoming Text: ++++++4446_

_ It's the end of the world._

_ Let's have dinner._

She grins, taking a sip of still-steaming tea as snow steadily piles up outside the café and thinks about airing out her battle dress when her phone chimes again, this time with the address and time of reservation. She rolls her eyes and sips her tea some more.

So predictable are men.

"I won't lie," she says, toying with the stem of her wine glass, "I was a little disappointed to find you meant it literally."

She's wearing a deep red gown, her hair bobbed in a severe line around her jaw and almost blue it's so black. She prefers her own color, and it's not different enough for safety, but she hates being blonde and red would have clashed with the dress.

It's hard, though, to decide which of them is most striking, because he sits across from her, after months and months of no responses and no new photos, and she is stunned just like the first time. There are lines around his eyes that weren't there before; there are a few stray grey hairs that really only serve to highlight his dramatic curls and dark brows. They aren't the markers of age—its only been a year, after all. It's the effect of exhaustion; oxygen and harsh light wearing away a priceless work of art. He must have been busy lately. He's fitted out in a crushed velvet suit the color of midnight, with a shirt the color of blood. No tie.

She can't help the playful curl of painted lips. He certainly knows what a girl likes, even if he doesn't know it.

A single eyebrow arches. "If having sex with you was my intention, do you really think I would speak euphemistically about it?"

"You? Never. But you can't fool me, Mr. Holmes. You took my pulse, you caught me off guard. Bravo. But don't lie to me. I know you're attracted to me, too."

His full, impossible lips quirks just the slightest. "I'm attracted to certain qualities of yours, yes," he says, amusement in his eyes for all his face remains dour. "I'm attracted to your mind, your drive, your delicious sense of ruthlessness, and obviously I'm not referring to your bedroom antics. In the entire scope of things that intrigue me about you, what you get up to with your clothes off does not even register as a point of interest. And don't bother looking offended, I know you feel the same."

She raises her hands, palms out. "Oh trust me, I've learned my lesson about challenging your deductions. A girl can only take so much punishment, no matter how satisfying it is."

She says it with a smile. They both hurt each other, both got under the skin and pulled at weak, tender heart-strings; a game of cat and yarn, each taking turns being the player and the played.

He smiles back but it's stiff, mechanical, and suddenly she realizes what this is.

It's goodbye.

"What's happened?" she asks, waving the waiter off when he comes to take their order.

His face is still and pale as a corpse and he speaks with a chillingly false sense of ease. "I'm afraid things have escalated since your departure. Our mutual acquaintance has made a very serious bid for my attention, and actions must be taken on my part to deal with this unpleasant turn of events."

"_What happened_?"

His eyes widen for a moment, but he looks away quickly, taking a perfunctory gulp of his wine as if it were water. He then rests his hands on the table, fingers tense and jittery like a nervous spider.

"He has-" but breaks off, swallows, and drags himself under control with visible effort.

She realizes she's barely breathing and tells herself to calm down. Nothing, though, serves to dispel the sense of dread that has gathered storm-like around their table.

He clears his throat and starts again. "In recent weeks there have been a series of suspicious . . . mishaps. Mostly harmless, at least at first. As I said, things have escalated. He's been toying with me, his movements so innocuous I must turn myself inside out to detect even a hint of his involvement. Apparently he likes to watch me dance, but I know what he really likes."

He looks at her pointedly, and she might have smiled at what passed for teasing from this enticingly, frustratingly aloof man. Instead her lips twitch weakly and a longing builds up to reach across the table and take his hand lying there. Rarely is she moved to tenderness, preferring the whip to a gentle caress, but he looks so weary and—possibly, unthinkably—frightened, that she doesn't know what else to do.

She keeps her hands to herself, and doesn't know if it's the right choice.

"A series of threats have been made," he continues, "suggesting that our mutual acquaintance is well aware of all my weak fronts. A few days ago, certain events made it clear which of these would bear the brunt of his . . . _efforts_."

He practically spits this last word out, a look very similar to rage darkening the few shadows lingering in the dramatic angles of his face, and she thinks she knows almost exactly what happened. Nothing fatal, or he wouldn't have bothered meeting her; he would already be on the war path. Nothing too inconsequential or he wouldn't be fraying at the seams. Someone has been hurt; a minor wound from a knife or gun or a car that "lost control," but in such a way that sent a potent message. A warning.

Something in her twinges a bit when it dawns on her who this "weak front" might be, and though she isn't surprised, she's a bit disappointed that it isn't her. Not that she expected it to be, but a girl can dream.

She smiles sadly. "It's John, isn't it?"

He blinks, muscle in his jaw vibrating with tension, but he forces his voice into smooth neutrality. "It could very well be Mrs. Hudson. I did throw a CIA agent out the sitting room window because he roughed her up a bit."

"But it's John, isn't it?"

"I have something like affection for Molly Hooper. Or perhaps DI Lestrade. I would certainly be dismayed, to an extent, if he ever came to harm-"

"—But it's John, isn't it?"

"—And I suppose Mycroft is a possibility as well, however simpler my life would be without his constant meddling-"

"—Sherlock!" she cuts in, louder and sharper than she wants, but this man would go for ages if she let him. _Outlive God, indeed_.

His mouth snaps closed, lips thinned and eyes glaring.

"It's John, though. Isn't it?"

Pale, brushed-steel gaze averts itself, his hands clasped together, long fingers wringing each other.

"John is a . . . good man," he says, halting, like his voice is trying to catch in his throat. "He doesn't deserve the trouble I bring him."

"What's this, then?"

He smiles wanly. "Think of it as a professional courtesy."

She laughs humorlessly, reaching for her wine glass to keep from hitting him. It is oh, so tempting at times.

"Courtesy for what? I served my purpose to him, and likewise."

"Oh, do stop being dull!" he snaps, expression twisted into a look of exasperation and maybe the tiniest bit of vulnerability. "You know very well you are one of my weak fronts, but of them all, you are the best protected. The furthest away. The biggest gamble."

"Gamble?"

He rolls his eyes, and she knows him just well enough by now to sense when a pontification is on the horizon.

"I've known you the least amount of time. He is unsure what exactly the nature or extent of our interest in one another is. And since I have not been idly waiting around for his next move, I'm sure he finds himself in a very precarious position. We have each other simultaneously cornered. He'll want the biggest impact for the fewest number of moves. You aren't a reliable enough threat, and it would take more time and effort to track you down than he can expend right now."

"And you don't think he might have sent someone to tail you? Have you lead them to me?"

"Please," he says with a conceited raise of an eyebrow. "Don't insult me on top of everything else."

"So if there's no danger to me, why bother with this little get together. Not that I'm not _thrilled_ to see you, mind."

"Of course there's danger to you, don't be idiotic, but just less than others. As to what I'm doing here . . ."

He trails off, brow furrowed and a look of haunted resignation on his face. She's never seen this precise expression, but she knows what those eyes look like when they're determined, stubborn, will not be turned from their course. She's seen it turn against her, and although this time is different, in place and circumstance, that feel of tragic inevitability is still there.

He has a plan.

"What have you done?"

His jaw twitches again. "Nothing yet. I am preparing for a . . . confrontation that will hopefully prove final. If all goes as it should, everyone will think I am dead, and I'll be free to take apart Moriarty's international network without incurring any more damage to my weak fronts."

She digests this for a moment, blinking slowly at him, praying she hasn't heard what she knows she just did.

"You can't. That's insane. What if it doesn't work?"

"Then I'll die."

She huffs angrily, mouth a tight line. "All right, and if it _does_ work? Have you thought about all the people who care about you? All the people heart-broken because either way, you aren't coming back? And John-"

"—_Don't_!" he snarls, real malice in his eyes, but it's frantic, terrified. Her fingers tighten into fists and she glares back.

"It's the only way," he mutters, face ruthlessly composed again. "I can't—his network is too extensive. Whether the master is alive or dead, his operatives are still at large, ready to burn my heart out whenever, whatever the signal may be. The _only_ solution to ensure that—the only—_I_ have to die too, don't you see? Obviously I don't intend to truly die, but I have to appear to, and _everyone_ must believe it."

"Then why tell me?"

His mouth moves, the shell of a smile. "Ego, perhaps. The only other one to know will be Mycroft, and he's never suitably impressed. Perhaps I thought if you didn't know, you might do something foolish that would expose your anonymity and force my hand. Again."

"And you don't think John will do something foolish? The man threatened to come after _me_, and all I did was put you in a sulk. What do you think he'll do to whoever kills you, real or not?"

"I intend to take Moriarty down first-"

"—That doesn't matter!" she cries. "This will destroy him! _You_ will destroy him."

"Why do you care so much?" he asks, eyes narrowed.

"Because you're right! He is a good man and he doesn't deserve what you put him through. Because I understand him, probably better than you do!"

"You know what he likes, then?" he sneers with acid on his tongue, and everything is so fucked, she can't even decide who he's jealous of.

"Of course I do," she says. "Don't you?"

Full lips purse, forehead wrinkled in a frown that lingers for a moment before smoothing in a sudden look of wistfulness. Her own brow crumples in confusion, wondering at this about-face, and just sighs a touch wearily.

"You never do stop playing games, do you?"

"As if you're any different. I assure you, I don't find any of this in the slightest bit amusing."

"I can't promise I'll be in London often. Mostly never, actually."

"I know," he says, looking drained and several years older, already. "I just need you to keep an ear open. I realize this isn't the kindest request I could make of you, but. You are correct. You know John, you understand him. And unlike me, you'll have some idea of what he'll be going through because you can empathize."

"You sell yourself short, detective. I'm sure you can imagine what he's in store for very well."

He doesn't acknowledge this. He knows it's true; he isn't as immune to feelings as he likes to report, and she's done the sane to him. She doesn't flatter herself, though, that this will be at all the same.

There is a silence then, heavy and chilled, the din of the restaurant—previously ignored—now seeping in. They hadn't even ordered anything to eat. It's fine, though. Neither of them had been hungry.

She can tell he has nothing more to say, so she says instead, "When are you leaving?"

"Oh, now's as good a time as any," he says, straightening his suit jacket and rising from the table.

"When you come back," she says, watching him pull his coat from the chair-back, "will we have dinner?"

The smile he gives her tells her so much more than words could; eyes soft for the first time that evening. He shrugs into his coat.

"I don't think so," he says, not unkindly. "John's really the only one I eat with."

She grins, mouth curled mischievously.

"Are you speaking euphemistically, Mr. Holmes?" she chides.

He leans in then, lips pressed against her cheek and her eyes slip closed at the brief moment of intimacy; the strings of affection, intrigue, passion, hurt, suspicion that tangle them together pulling tight before dissolving once the contact ends.

Breathe into that warm, close space.

"Goodbye, Irene."

She doesn't watch him as he leaves.

She keeps her hand on her wine and her eyes on the phone.

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><p>Sooo...not too horrible? Hope you enjoyed! Please review! It makes my heart happy!<p> 


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